Passage to India

Speaking of rites of passage, I am ashamed to admit that I have this ritual with new people I meet. I have sworn that I don’t choose friends (because they choose me, harhar) which is not exactly a lie but I had a moment of reflection last night as I decided to miss “Totoy Bato” (the best in local TVlandia right now, ehem) and I realized that I discriminate more than I care to admit. Boo to me!

I had this nasty habit before. When someone asked something, a favor or a question, I would say, “What’s the password?” It did not mean anything because I always relented anyway but now that I psychoanalyze, that nasty habit acquires a sub-text.

Maybe there’s a secret handshake with me, after all but because I am a lowlife, I tend to develop instant affinity, balancing this urge to discriminate. For instance when I meet someone whose major is Political Science, the solidarity is automatic. It’s the notion of shared experience - of the same dead philosophers haunting us, of common confusion and delight over Marx, of the same questions grappled at one time or another.

You want discrimination? Well, hear this: This very witty friend in college would not make friends with a popular batchmate simply because that batchmate wore acid-washed denim. I understood the sentiment but I did not necessarily share it. I was actually friends with that batchmate who had a preference for acid-washed denim. My discrimination happens not to border on fashion.

Music is usually my yardstick, perhaps because it is my drug of choice. I mean, you don’t do my drug and I don’t dig yours, what’s the point in us being friends? Well, that’s not exactly true. I have friends who do not conceal their derision over my musical taste or lack of it, my late mother being on top of that list.

Some people may find it childish – judging people by their musical preferences. Well, they don’t get it. It’s not really about music. To me, it’s more of worldview and don’t let me expound on that. I have been out of school too long, the discourse has abandoned me.

If it’s not music or films or fashion-sense, I don’t exactly know the rite of passage or more aptly, the right of passage I subject people to. I just know that there is. When I am asked about a certain person, I tend to simplify things or maybe I am just too lazy to illuminate, so I just say he’s one of ours or she’s one of us. That’s how vampires do it, I suppose.

I remember asking my class how people strike them or what they admire in people and the usual answers I got were beauty, intelligence, power, authority, and expertise on a particular field. Then somebody turned the table on me, “Ikaw, what do you admire in a person?” My answer: compassion and humor.

So maybe that’s my password, passport, right of passage, whatever. I would like to believe the people I consider friends have plenty of both.